Rough Cut Page 3

  Harry read the proposal and agreed to meet Paul for lunch at a French restaurant in Brentwood.

  At lunch, Paul impressed Harry. He was a bundle of fresh energy, barely able to sit still, dressed in a dark suit like a banker. He resembled Harry from 20 years ago: a full head of hair, straight posture, and trim. He continued his pitch, “Especially in foreign markets, there is a thirst for Hollywood product that can’t be quenched. Consumer video sales are going through the roof. New cable channels are popping up all the time. Who is going to feed this monster? We are. We could be a great team. You have the moviemaking skills I’m looking for. You write; you direct; you know indie filmmaking. I know you can work magic with small budgets. I have seen your films, dating back to the Argas stuff. You are my first choice. If you don’t want to jump at this opportunity, I understand. You might have bigger and better things in the pipeline. If you say no, I go to number two, then three, all the way down. But this production company is going to happen. I have the start-up funds. I can take us global. I am very tenacious. I know how to rally investors. I know how to raise money and make money from money. I know what I want to do with my life and this is it. What do you say?”

  Harry thought about it for about a nanosecond.

  Then he asked, “Where do I sign?”

  PJ Productions established an office in Westwood on Wilshire Boulevard, opened for business, and never looked back. While everything was on a much smaller scale than Harry was used to, the operation was a well-oiled machine; and he was making movies again. The titles rolled out in a steady stream: Valley of the Zombies, Slash, Schizo Sisters, Surfer Psycho, Soul Snatchers, the Ghost House series, and more.

  Paul trusted Harry with the scripts and direction. They established a network of reliable, cheap talent to hire on a per-film basis. The budgets were limited, the shooting schedules tight, and the final products never as polished as Harry would have liked. But he had artistic control. Paul never hovered over the filmmaking process. He rarely set foot on the sets. He remained in the office, on the phone, arranging lunches and meetings, maximizing the money flow.

  Paul made them both a lot of income. Harry paid back all of his debts from his “black period,” and even had money leftover each month to help out his parents, who lived in Anaheim and were scraping to get by on his father’s skimpy pension.

  Everything was back on stable ground except for one thing.

  Critics hated the pictures.

  Paul told Harry not to agonize over the reviews, but Harry couldn’t help it. His new career was a mixed blessing. Sure, he wanted to make movies. Sure, he wanted to make money. But he also craved respect and admiration. Once, long ago, for a short time the reviews had been good; and people had said nice things about Harry Tuttle. And now...

  “Another dismal offering from Harry Tuttle,” read one review.

  “Tuttle’s monster dreck just gets worse and worse,” read another. “He’s not the bottom of the barrel, he’s beneath it.”

  Even magazines devoted to horror movies and “psychotronic” films joined in the public thrashing.

  “The new Harry Tuttle movie is poor and sloppy, don’t waste your time,” reported Monster Fan, a crude, stapled fanzine riddled with typos.

  All of the venom and cruelty merely provoked Harry to work even harder at delivering a comeback film. He knew he had it in him. He could work around the skimpy budgets —good writing and directing would always win out in the end. He could hide the shortcuts and compromises.

  Harry poured his heart and soul into his newest film, The Beastly.

  He labored over the script, a terror tale about a teenage mutant whose puberty unleashes homicidal impulses. He obsessed over the direction. The Beastly had unexpected twists, scares, and pathos. It had a contemporary edge. Harry was certain it was the best work of his career.

  And now, in less than an hour, The Beastly would be unveiled to Paul’s investors.

  Harry was hopeful the investors would applaud his efforts, deliver praise, and the buzz would begin. His comeback underway, Harry would return to form. He was long overdue.

  Harry finished his last sip of the frappuccino. He checked his watch. It was time to leave the Village Coffee Shop and head to the offices of PJ Productions. He needed to meet up with Paul and get ready for the screening.

  As Harry returned to his car on Beachwood Drive, he couldn’t help taking one more glance at the Hollywood sign. It recharged his batteries. It reminded him of his reason to live. It renewed his vigor and enthusiasm.

  “Look out, Hollywood,” he said. “Harry Tuttle is back, and he’s better than ever.”

  3

  “What a piece of crap!”

  Cal Stillwall’s outburst shattered the long silence that greeted the end of The Beastly.

  Following the conclusion of the credits, Paul Jacobs had snapped on the lights in the small screening room. The brightness jarred 76-year-old Ellie Kirby from her slumber, and she caught herself in mid-drool. The other investors, filling three rows of folding chairs, appeared in various degrees of disinterest and displeasure.

  Stillwall’s eruption opened the gates for the others. Sara Connelly, a red-haired real estate attorney from Bel Air, exclaimed, “Nobody in their right mind is going to see this picture.” Alan Fisch, a periodontist from Pasadena, grumbled, “You promised a major star.”

  Paul stood with confidence before the group, chest pumped out, wearing his blue Armani suit. He beamed to deflect the scowls. “A major star you wanted and a major star you got. Didn’t you see Corey Summers?”

  “Who?” said Jimmy Nancarrow, who owned a string of car dealerships.

  “Corey Summers, the great child actor from the long-running television sitcom Oh Brother. He played the second victim. Remember the power drill scene?”

  “You mean that 40-year-old guy?”

  “Sure, he’s older now,” said Paul. “His show’s been off the air awhile, but he’s been waiting for the right vehicle...”

  “I thought Corey Summers was dead from sniffing paint thinner,” said Sara Connelly.

  “You’re thinking of Corey Singer,” suggested Mel Orr, who owned a chain of pet stores. “That little freckled kid from Hi-jinx.”

  “You could see the boom mike in a couple of scenes,” spoke up Fisch.

  “How come in that one scene you could see the dead guy scratch his stomach?” said Nancarrow.

  Paul dismissed them with a chuckle. “We’ll fix it in post.”

  “I don’t see how this movie is going to make any money,” said Fisch. “It’s just plain bad.”

  In the back of the room, Harry Tuttle sank deeper into his chair. He felt like a pincushion being pierced by needles.

  Dick the Greek came to his rescue. Dick was a large, stubbly man who lived in Las Vegas. He rarely attended Paul’s screenings but remained one of the key investors in PJ Productions since fueling the company’s start-up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, don’t kid yourselves, this is not about art,” said Dick in his low, gravelly monotone. “This is about commerce. Once you get past that, I can testify to the profitability of these films. I do not defend their aesthetics. This is not even the type of film I like. I like westerns and musicals. But I also like money. These pictures make good money. Paul has never let me down, and I have invested in seven of his productions.”

  “Thank you, Dick,” said Paul. “A perfect segue.” He clasped his hands together and addressed the group. “I’d like to take this opportunity to reiterate our business plan. Some of you in this room have invested in our projects in the past, and some of you are obviously newcomers. It is for those newcomers that I would like to restate our modus operandi.”

  Paul paced along a wall decorated with lurid promotional posters for previous PJ Productions: Hillbilly Cannibals, Ghost House IV, Swamp Monster.

  “First and foremost, we are not Paramount or Disney or MGM. We do not make big-budget theatrical films. We do not hire big stars. We are an independent
film production company that is not financed by any studio. We rely on private investors who are attracted to our track record and would like a taste of Hollywood. We shoot exploitation movies on the low-end of the budget spectrum, essentially for the video market and cable television. Our films are tightly scripted, quickly shot, with as much in-house post-production as possible. We put most of our muscle into marketing and distribution. We are an international company.”

  Paul stopped at a French movie poster, Soeurs Schizophrenes, featuring two buxom women in lingerie, back-to-back, wielding axes dripping with blood.

  “Including the United States and Canada, there are more than 65 countries hungry for Hollywood product. That means 65 sources of revenue from home video, pay TV, and cable TV rights. You may not see our films making a big splash, but they do generate ripples around the globe. Our movies make money in Germany...Italy...Spain...the UK...Japan...France. They all want some of that Hollywood magic.”

  Paul pointed across the room to a poster for Soul Snatchers.

  “That video there, sold 37,000 units in South Korea alone. And because we’re not paying Tom Cruise’s salary, or spending tens of millions of dollars on extravagant special effects, the rate of return to our pockets is significant.”

  Paul picked up a dog-eared copy of the PJ Productions prospectus from the snack table. He waved the document.

  “I hope all of you took the time to read the fine print. Everything we do is SEC compliant. We have outlined all the risk factors. Everything is on the books. There is no mystery behind our agenda. It’s really quite simple.”

  Paul tossed the prospectus to Alan Fisch while still addressing the group. “A few years ago, our company entered a new phase. We went totally digital. It has created an immediate impact on the bottom line. This is the 21st Century. Theaters are using digital projectors and testing satellite projection. Thirty-five millimeter is dying, and we are ahead of the curve. We have eliminated the expense of buying film stock, paying lab processing fees, and making prints. Today’s digital equipment can replicate the look of film at a fraction of the cost. It costs less to buy and own high-end digital video cameras than to rent 35 millimeter cameras.”

  Paul gestured to the blank projection screen at the front of the room. “The movie you saw today. Looked like film stock, no? Well, it wasn’t. The Beastly was shot entirely on Digital Betacam, using as much natural light as possible. We captured the footage into a state-of-the-art Apple workstation and stored it on massive hard drives. We used the latest nonlinear editing software to prepare a high-resolution master that can be burned to DVD. Most of our post is conducted in our own facilities: titles, transitions, sound mix, color corrections, effects. This company may be small, but make no mistake, we are cutting edge.”

  Paul returned to the snack table and picked up a DVD from a stack of complimentary screeners of recent releases. He displayed the clamshell artwork to the group.

  “This is I’ll Skin You Alive!, one of our recent horror pictures. It never realized a theatrical release and it was very profitable. We shot on video, we released on video. Even with major studio product, you are seeing less time between a theatrical release and the direct-to-consumer DVD. We just close that gap entirely. The direct-to-video business is not just kiddie programs and exercise videos. Instead of going to the movies, people are bringing the movies home. They have home theater set-ups. They rent and buy movies in huge numbers. And the cost of duplicating DVDs...it’s so cheap it should be illegal. We can do the duplication in-house. We churn them out while we sleep. We can sell up to 18,000 copies of one of our titles to Wal-Mart alone. We sell thousands more direct to customers on our web site. And that’s just DVD sales. I haven’t even touched upon the global television markets: cable TV, premium channels, local and national networks from here to Singapore. In-room pay-per-view movies at hotel chains. We’re even exploring download-on-demand movies online. The opportunities are endless. Fortunately, we have a strong relationship with a distributor who knows the markets, builds relationships, and likes to travel. Our sales agent is one of the best in the business. He is more valuable to us than any flash-in-the-pan movie star.”

  Paul paused to take a potato chip out of one of the snack bowls. He bit into it with a crunch. “Finally,” he said, and he extended an arm to the back of the room, “we have the great fortune of an exclusive relationship with one of the best creative minds in the business, Harry Tuttle. I like to refer to him as ‘Scary Harry’.”

  As faces turned to look at him, Harry made a small, reluctant wave.

  Paul said, “Harry writes, directs, and produces our films. He has already completed the script to our next feature, The Vampire of Sunset Strip. I consider Harry the fastest, most efficient moviemaker in Hollywood. He can shoot a movie in 21 days, and everything he’s touched for us has turned a profit. Harry works with a network of hard-working, cost-efficient, free-lance talent. He knows the cinematographers, editors, production designers, gaffers, soundtrack composers —you name it. The man knows how to assemble a crew and manufacture a movie like nobody else. He’s done it so many times, he could do it in his sleep. And because we own most of our equipment — the cameras and sound gear, the lights, and so on —we just need to hire the talent. We don’t lease the supplies. It gives us further cost control. And there’s one other way we save costs...Sometimes, when casting, we look to one of our own.”

  Paul stood beside Ellie Kirby, an elderly, very rich widow from Beverly Hills. Ellie smiled shyly. “I hope all of you noticed Ellie’s fabulous cameo as the lunchroom lady. Did you enjoy seeing yourself up there, Ellie?” Ellie continued smiling and patted Paul’s hand. “Oh yes. Thank you Paul.”

  “We should call her the ‘world-famous Ellie Kirby’,” said Paul, “because they’re going to be watching her stellar performance in Portugal...in Taiwan...in Venezuela...you name it. And where else can any of you get that opportunity? Sure, you could invest in stocks and bonds...ho hum...or real estate... yawn...but that doesn’t offer you immortality. Long after Ellie leaves this earth, bless her, future generations will still be watching her performance. Mel — they’ll see you as bystander number four in the crowd scene. Alan —for years to come, they’ll see your name in the credits as one of the executive producers.”

  Paul’s voice grew quiet. Almost a whisper. “Movies are magic. All of you are now part of that magic. And you’re going to make some money off that magic. So hold tight; be patient. If you don’t believe me, just ask for a refund, because I have a waiting list of other investors who would like to be a part of this special partnership. Anyone here can be replaced, if they so choose.”

  Paul finally stopped talking. A long silence ensued.

  When no one spoke up, Paul said, “Thank you for coming to our world premiere. Are we ready to break out the champagne?”

  “They hated it, Paul.”

  Harry Tuttle remained anchored in the back row of the small projection room. The investors had left. Harry hadn’t moved.

  Paul paced around him, energized. “Hated it? No. Some of them —a few of them —just don’t understand. You’d think they would read the prospectus and recognize that we aren’t making Twilight or Avatar here. It’s a different business model.”

  “Cal Stillwall looked like he was going to overheat his pacemaker.”

  “Hey, nobody pulled their investment. Most of them are on board for the next one. They keep coming back, don’t they?” Paul nibbled on some of the leftover popcorn.

  Harry felt a stone in the pit of his stomach. “I used to make big films. Movies that played for weeks all over the country.

  Sometimes they even got good reviews. Now I just churn out garbage. My name is becoming synonymous with crap. Harry the Hack. Maybe I should take my name off the picture and use a pseudonym. Alan Smithee or John Doe.”

  “No Doe,” said Paul. “Get serious. You are the one and only ‘Scary Harry,’ the best in the biz. You have a loyal following. They keep coming back f
or more. Look at the numbers. Revenues are up, earnings are up.”

  “But the reviews...”

  “You get good reviews,” said Paul. He pointed to the poster for Ghost House IV: The Final Chapter. He read out loud the blurb above the title, “‘An instant classic. One of the best horror films of all time...The Movie Review Gazette.’”

  Harry gave him a long look. “You know and I know that The Movie Review Gazette is your cousin’s web site. He only reviews our movies, and he only writes good reviews.”

  “But nobody knows that. I thought we were talking about public perception.”

  Harry sighed. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re dragging me down, Harry. I’m trying to be positive. There’s no reason to believe this movie can fail. What’s wrong with you today?”

  Harry shrugged. All the build-up to the screening...and then a massive let-down. It felt too familiar. He just felt lousy. The meditation wasn’t helping lighten his load. Maybe more therapy?

  “Maybe I’m having my mid-life crisis,” said Harry.

  “Then rejoice,” responded Paul. “You’re 46. If you’re having your mid-life crisis now, that means you’ll live to be 92. Do the math.”

  “That doesn’t cheer me up.”

  “Listen to me,” said Paul. “You are the best writer-director in the horror field today, bar none.”

  “Because I’m the cheapest. I can work with puny budgets and no-name talent, and turn a profit.”

  “And those profits guarantee that you can make more movies. Do you know how many directors struggle for work after a couple of big-budget failures? Your filmography is going to be a block long.”

  “It’s about quality, not quantity,” said Harry. “Sometimes I get thinking about my legacy. After I’m gone and only the movies remain, what will people say about me, if anything? You know, my best movie I didn’t even get credit for.”